


Marked: Part IV ("Metamorphoses")

by goodgirlwhoshopeful



Series: Marked [4]
Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015), CHRISTIE Agatha - Works
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, F/M, Fiction, Psychological Drama, Romance, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, philip x vera, soulmate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 11:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6656431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgirlwhoshopeful/pseuds/goodgirlwhoshopeful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As she stared out at the thunderstorm that raged Soldier Island, it no longer left her feeling suffocated. She felt enlightened. No longer was she blinded by love and heartbreak. She was not lost. Perhaps she had never been.</p>
<p>That first day, they had been in the eye of a storm, in the calm; shaking hands, dining, lying to one another with smiles on their faces and steel walls behind their eyes as they donned their best linens and silks as armour. They had all been built up on naive false confidence, telling themselves that they were somehow invincible because they had gotten away with acts that no person should. </p>
<p>In reality, they had all smiled in the face of St. Peter with a knife behind their backs…and now, as the rains of torment descended, they were to pay for it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Soulmate-Identifying Marks AU in canon with the BBC's 2015 adaptation.<br/>(Split into parts for easy reading / to allow feedback on sections).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked: Part IV ("Metamorphoses")

**Author's Note:**

> So, my betas are very busy at the moment so this is proof read purely by me. Hopefully it still pleases you all.... Things are getting tense...... 
> 
> Lots of love to my betas - hopefully they'll be back to help me next time. 
> 
> Massive thank you to xxsparksxx for her continued writings on Philip/Vera that continue to leave me quietly in awe.

IV

_"Metamorphoses"_

* * *

**V. E. Claythorne**

 

She got into yet another disagreement with Armstrong as they all gathered in the drawing room, having turned it upside down that afternoon in search of the missing gun. With lounge cushions strewed across the floor, armchairs overturned with their undersides ripped out, the roomed looked just as haggard as every soul within it. 

After their search was abandoned and the tinned food consumed, they had all retired to their rooms to dress and, much to Vera’s disappointment, Philip emerged fully clothed, no longer parading in next to nothing. She registered in that moment _just_ how much she had _missed_ the male form, being able to admire it it all its feral masculinity. Since she had not been intimate with any man since Hugo’s rejection, it had occurred to her many a time that she may _never_ wish to be again…which would be the ultimate tragedy for her character. She _had_ _lived_ for sex and for the power that it filled her with as well as the pleasure that it allowed her to lose herself in. So, at the prospect of an entire existence from then on _without_ it, she had desperately attempted to find another to replace him, but was too wounded and blinded with the grief of losing Hugo’s affection to be able to go through with it. Whenever she tried, she saw his cold, despondent eyes looking over her with disgust… or little Cyril stood just over the strangers shoulder.

_“You suit that scarlet lip, you know,” Hugo had muttered into her ear as they had settled atop the sand dune, the first time they were alone together. The sky had been grey, the overcast clouds hanging low and heavy, the feeling of impending rain hanging in the air. Despite such facts, Vera and Hugo had not cleared their picnic spot. No, instead, the tension of an incoming thunderstorm seemed to have on her wired._

_Hugo had been meek in his touches, skimming his fingers over her back and waist in a way that was so shy that it almost drove her mad. She had grasped his hands and pressed them hard against her breast, leaning up to take his mouth. Even his kiss had been hesitant at first and she had dug her nails into his shirt-clad shoulders in impatience. He had slid his hands over her move heavily then, finally, and kissed her back with more vigour._

_She had pulled back and smirked proudly at the scarlet lipstick now across his lips and chin, transferred from her own. Possessively, she bit his lower lip. “So do you.”_

The memory blinkered her momentarily from the sinister distractions of Soldier Island and she shook it away. However, what it left was a multitude of questions. She had once thought that the desire she had felt on that sand dune to be the most paramount and most powerful that she would _ever_ feel… 

But, with the arrival of new employment and the decision to visit Soldier Island, she had found this desire again, though this time it was _not_ for the intuitionally chivalrous Harrow boy with freckles and a sweet disposition… but for Philip Lombard, a man who encapsulated all that was sinful and dark about the world. Once she had acknowledged it, it had begun to rampage through her with ever-increasing strength until she awoken one day and was no longer consumed with sorrow for the loss of her lover. She simply felt _relief_. 

As though being struck by some form of epiphany, she had a sudden, radical thought: it was not as though Hugo had been and unworldly entity, either. What had she been so worked up over? He had been handsome, _yes_ ; distinguished, _of course,_ but… Suddenly, she could not put her finger on why she had done what she had done; on _why_ she had so enraptured with a man whom she now could remember very little about, despite it having been only a year… 

It was a revelation, as she suddenly uncovered the woman who slept with Alice Celanese's sweetheart at seventeen and did not regret it; who played men in positions of power to get what she wanted; a part of herself she had long forgotten while in love. Suddenly, she realised how becoming affectionate towards Hugo had changed her. She had attempted to transform herself, to be _enough_ for him, to give up her natural instincts to play by the rules as a _good_ , English girl meant for a man like Hugo should… 

As she stared out at the thunderstorm that raged Soldier Island, it no longer left her feeling suffocated. She felt _enlightened._ No longer was she blinded by love and heartbreak. She was _not_ lost. _Perhaps_ she had never been. Perhaps _that_ was love’s ultimate trickery, that made it the enemy of anyone with any sense; it taught one that one was worthless without a specific other. 

She stared at the rain and almost smiled. It seemed apt, if she was honest. That first day, they had been in the eye of a storm, in the calm; shaking hands, dining, _lying_ to one another with smiles on their faces and steel walls behind their eyes as they donned their best linens and silks as armour. They had all been built up on naive false confidence, telling themselves that they were somehow invincible because they had gotten away with acts that no person should. 

In reality, they had all smiled in the face of St. Peter with a knife behind their backs…and now, as the rains of torment descended, they were to pay for it.

“Where are she – where are you going?!” Armstrong uttered panicked as she suddenly made her way to quit the room. By now, his frenzied speech almost drove her to violence.

“To make _tea_ ,” she answered wearily. “I’ll bring it in.”

“What _else_ are you going to bring in? A _knife_ from the kitchen? The gun from… _wherever_ it is that you’ve hidden it?! And what are you going to be putting in the tea? She could wipe out all four of us!”

_Oh, give me strength._ “They’ll be _lemon,_ in the tea. I won’t bring a knife and I don’t have the gun. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be killing you all that the same time, would I?”

“How do we _know_ that? – ” Armstrong flapped, and just like that, Vera had had enough.

“ _Because_ it’s _one by one_ and in a particular way _–_ or haven’t you been paying attention? – And _nowhere_ on that does it say anything about a gun, you _idiotic, cretinous bastard!”_

It felt good to shout, to insult such a ludicrous excuse of a man, _finally_. The red mist before her cleared a moment later as a single applause sounded from across the room. Philip, grinning like a Cheshire cat, stood, chuckling lowly to himself, as he slowly clapped, evidently pleased with her outburst. He put out his cigarette and seemed somewhat eager as he said, “I’ll come with ya’ – ”

Evidently, Blore had his suspicions as he cut in suddenly. _“No!”_ Everyone turned to look at him with looks that said, _Do you know something we don’t?_ “No – We go singularly or…in a group.”

Consequently, they all sat down below stairs for a while, drinking tea and change-smoking cigarettes while Philip questioned Judge Wargrave about Edward Seton, the man the record accused him of murdering. She remembered reading about it all in the papers as Seton’s alleged murders had unfolded. They had all seemed to think he was innocent. He was a _decent, young Marked individual,_ they’d said. 

So, exactly why the Judge and the police knew of Seton such a different, man, (‘sadistic, warped, cruel’) Vera wasn’t sure. Perhaps Seton’s ultimate skill had not been murder or torture but _deception_. After all, why would the Judge lie about someone like that? 

“Was he Marked, Judge?” she found herself asking, as Philip stood, unmoving and quiet, suckling on yet another cigarette. His eyes were pinched as his seemed to be analysing the older justice man. Perhaps he did not believe him.

“No. He was a blank,” he denied, using the informal slang for a Unmarked individual. “He had a false Mark, tattooed – very _poorly_ I might add – on his hand – used for appearances to draw victims in and whatnot.” 

Vera said nothing to that. Perhaps there was some truth in what her mother had always said after all, about Unmarked souls being condemned. _But, how_ can _that be true?_ A voice inside her chastised. _Surely, if it were, then Philip Lombard would be the_ first _to be Unmarked amongst them in this room – he killed twenty one men, at the very least for God’s sake! – yet he was not. You’ve_ seen _his Mark, haven’t you?!_ the voice reprimanded. _All these said links between good and evil and Marked and Unmarked are bullshit!_ As she considered the way in which ‘Blank’ individuals were incriminated, arrested for more often, despited as villains in fiction, she suddenly frowned. _Was it orchestrated discrimination?_

“Why’d ya’ ask that?” She looked up at Philip as he broke his silence, quietly taking a moment to appreciate the pronounced lilt in his voice that casually rolled his speech. The rest of the men in the room eyed her suspiciously, but she knew Philip asked purely out of curiosity. After all, they _both_ knew by now she was far too disjointed a personality at present to be the murderer. 

“Curiosity,” she answered plainly. “I’ve been thinking over what Judge said that first dinner, about the correlation between those he put to death and their Marked status… I’m beginning to think he might be right.” 

Careful to remain nonchalant to all but Philip, Vera rose her gaze and met the Irishman’s own with silent volition. “It just seems… only those with something to hide would lie about a Mark.” Philip’s gaze was suddenly sharp and conversational and locked onto her own. She had never known a gaze speak such volumes. Only issue was, she could not for the _life_ of her decipher what it was _saying_. He looked confused, as though he had not understood the double entendre behind her comment. Somehow, this just annoyed her more. _Smug, lying bastard,_ she thought. _If you are Marked like the rest of them, why didn’t you say so at dinner, when everyone else did?_ She felt a lump grow in her throat to the point she had to look away. _Why did you have to let me get my hopes up that I had finally found a kindred spirit?_

“What about you then, _Miss Claythorne?”_ Philip enquired, emphasising the use of her formal name, most likely to make some sort of indirect point. His tone was quiet, as though not intending to trap her or accuse her…but simply wanting to understand. “Are _you_ Marked?”

The Judge instantly piped in – so predictable that Vera considered she should have put money on it. “Lombard! – _Honestly! –_ What an _impetuous, impertinent_ question to ask of a lady – Miss Claythorne, please, do not feel the need to – ”

While the Judge was offended, following the rules of what was impolite to discuss in polite society to the very letter, Vera was _not_ at all put out by the question this time. While, once upon a time, it would have sent her into a state of autopilot, telling the very first lie she ever mastered all over again, this time, suddenly, it didn’t. 

This time, for the _first time,_ Vera Claythorne felt no need to lie. 

“No,” she said quietly, lowering her eyes to the table. “I’m not.” 

She knew that if she rose her eyes what she would see: shock in the eyes of the Judge; smug delight in the suspicious eyes of Blore and Armstrong… but she no longer could predict what she’d see in Philip. In that moment, she realised, she did not want to know and so refused to look at him. “You may all judge me for it – you may wish to assume things. Go ahead,” finishing her tea, she rose to leave. “But I did not kill any of them.” 

At such a thought, with all this talk of Marks and souls and good versus evil, Vera saw Cyril again – his little, dripping wet silhouette haunting her from across the room, out of sight of everyone else. She regarded him impassively but felt her heart rate rising violently, knowing she was hallucinating. She was getting bad again. _I don’t know why I did it to you, Cyril._ She wanted to say. _I realise that now._ Yes _, I’d do it all again for the love I thought I had… but was it worth it?_

Sorrowfully, Vera left the room without looking back, dragging her feet, and her guilt, behind her as she went. _No – Hugo wasn’t worth this._

* * *

**P. Lombard**

  
****

Vera had gone up to bed not long after her revelations in the kitchen. Philip was unsure of just how he felt as he watched her go. He was left reeling, knocked sideways by her unexpected divulging of such an intimate truth as Marked status. It wasn’t that he had thought her to be Marked – he had known by one look at into her beckoning eyes that she wasn’t – but he certainly had not expected her to speak it aloud. Part of him dismayed when she did, for it made her look much more suspicious to the others, which was irritatingly problematic. He had decided since the first time he saw her lie that he wanted her body… but with each passing day, if it came down to it, he found he wanted her on his side, too.

She had been running her finger over the rim of her glass, producing a high pitch, musical sound and it had evidently rubbed Armstrong up the wrong way. Vera wasn’t having that, though. “As if we haven’t had to put up with _you_.” She looked at them all with eyes that were distracted and hazed, as though she was focused on something far away that no one else could see. He watched her intently. _What is in that pretty little head of yours?_ _“Breathing_ and smoking, scratching, _fidgeting_ and _pacing_ … I’m going to bed.”  

He had watched her go – the other men not nearly as quick to reach the foot of the stairs. She turned at the sound of his approach and for a brief moment her eyes beckoned him again, unknowing that the other men were just out of sight. For the briefest of moments, he saw the zeal in her eyes at the thought that he was following her to bed and it made him want to grin in triumph. 

He remained downstairs once she had gone, to finish his drink and keep an eye on the other men left awake, not trusting either of them. He considered that perhaps he should check that the Judge was in fact reading in his room as he said he was, as something about the man’s choice to splinter off seemed…uncharacteristically careless for a man whose career centred around logic and reason. He tipped the crystal glass in his hand and contemplated heading to bed to do just that. 

That is, until the Armstrong pushed his luck.

“That broad is such a _piece of work,_ ” he had hissed as he drained yet _more_ brandy moments after watching Vera go. He sniggered and wiped his sweaty brow, throwing his fist onto the tabletop. “She’s so entitled and _stuffy_ – Ha! – She’s so _tight,_ I’ll bet her lovers’ struggle to retract themselves from her – the venomous _bitch –”_

_“ – Hey!”_ Philip halted the man before he considered how it may look. If he was honest, he did not _care_ how it looked. In that moment, he saw a nothing but the mists of fury, tainting his vision and a man that needed to be taught some lessons. Throwing himself forward, Philip filled the distance between he and the pathetic medical man in an instant. Grabbing him by the collar, he spat into his face as he spoke, gritting his teeth. 

“Now you listen to me, Armstrong. I don’t _care_ what you think of women and I don’t _care_ if you think Miss Claythorne is guilty.” Without mercy, he then pulled at the man’s chest and twisted his thumb behind his back until his face was pressed against the nearest wall. Enjoying the sight as he crying in submission with the whines of a little girl, Philip crowded him, speaking into his ear from behind with an eery intimacy of a lover…or a killer. 

“But _dare_ to disrespect Vera in front of me again…” He trailed his speech into nothing to let the man’s imagination do the rest, pulling his thumb back harder behind the the bone give a light pop under the strain. He barely contained a grin as Armstrong whined and begged. _Oh, how long he’d been waiting to show this man the treatment he deserved._ “Y’understand, ya’ whiney _fuck_? That _woman_ has more _balls_ than you will _ever_ possess in those trousers of yours, even in your pathetic, sweaty little dreams.” As the Doctor continued to whine to be released, Philip was surprised to note that Tubs stood back and said nothing. It seemed he must agree, then. “You’d do well to show some _respect_.”

As he let him go, the sweating mess of a man opened his mouth to hurl abuse but was cut short by the sound of a distant, shrill scream, coming from the direction of the first floor. Philip was instantly set alight in a way it never had before; usually such a cry of panic would simply trigger an eagerness to investigate, to get his hands dirty, _if_ any reaction at all… but this time, he felt panic run through his _own_ veins like ice water. 

_Vera._

He set off running before the other two men had even processed what was happening, taking the stairs two at a time with ease. He cursed himself in the few seconds it took to reach her room for letting her go to bed alone. That was never his plan. Tonight was supposed to be the night they fucked, the night he finally secured her in place as a reliable ally. He had assumed, considering their near-miss in the hall that afternoon, the outcome would be a guarantee. Why hadn’t he kept an eye on her? Never assume, Lombard! he growled to himself. _Stupid! Schoolboy error!_

For a man of merely thirty years of age, Philip Lombard had killed an incredibly high number of people. Those he had targeted shifted like the wind, from gang members at eighteen years old, to African tribesmen at present… However, one thing never changed: he had never _once_ felt fear at the prospect of death – not his victims or his own. It was his staple. It made him _invincible_. 

With the guttural scream of Vera Claythorne however, Philip knew he was invincible no longer. 

He could never know why, or quite how, it come to be… but as he charged for Vera’s bedroom door that night, Philip found himself dreading what he might find behind it. 

When he reached her, she was unconscious on the floor, her skin a sickly pale pallor that shined unhealthily with each strike of lightening from the window. “Vera!” he called immediately, not caring that the other men were not far behind. He dropped down onto one knee beside her and inspected her hastily, assuming at first that she may have been strangled. Reassurance surged through him when he could see no marks at her throat. His eyes swept to her head. No blood – that was good. Feeling for a pulse, his own hammered in relief when he felt one, beating hard against his fingers. _That’s it, Little Liar. Fight!_

The Doctor made his grand entrance, suddenly eager to play saviour, despite his apparent despise for the woman. Philip ignored him, leaning back over the brunette’s still form. While the medical man’s back was turned, he let his hand wonder further than would be considered necessary. As though gentleness might rouse her, he gently cupped the back of her head and called her name in a whisper, like an ordinary man might do when rousing his lover. “Vera!” He gently smooth back her hair from her still face and shook her by the shoulder, to no response. 

“Here,” Armstrong said, holding out an object in his hand toward Vera’s face. 

“Woah, woah – ”Philip cautioned in hast, shooting his arm out and grasped the man’s hand, instantly suspicious.

“Oh, for _Christ’s_ sake, it’s _sal volatile_ ,” the Doctor snapped, exasperated. Philip must have looked blank, because he then elaborated. _“Smelling salts._ In through the nose out through the mouth… _”_ He held them beneath her nose and, sure enough, Vera awoke with a start, coughing and spluttering. 

Blore arrived then and rushed to Vera’s side with a glass of brandy. As Philip settled at the foot of the bed, he watched her almost take a sip. _Wouldn’t do that if I were you,_ he thought. 

It was as though she heard him as she batted the glass away in the last moment with a gasp of realisation. Philip found himself chortling, deeply amused by her delayed intuition… but mostly by the look on Tubs’ face. “Good for you, Vera!”

The Policeman then winged for a while about how he hadn’t touched the brandy, offended that Miss Claythorne might be suspicious of him, as though they weren’t _all_ suspicious of one another. 

“I’m going to go and fetch another bottle that _hasn’t_ been opened,” Philip said over his shoulder as he left the room, placing emphasis on his words to belittle the foolish choice he made. Once had had left Vera’s bedroom, he made hast in his task to retrieve a fresh bottle, not wanting to leave her alone with men he did not trust, particularly in her current, somewhat fragile state. He was quick on his feet, quicker than anyone would anticipate, so he made it back to the threshold of Vera’s bedroom in enough time to hear Armstrong’s theatrical whispers to Tubs about his closeness to Vera. _“He called her ‘Vera’!”_ Armstrong whispered, so loudly he could hear the words clearly from strides away down the corridor. _“That’s the second time… There’s something going on between them!”_

His own words came back to him in that moment as he overheard the Doctor’s observation, suddenly aware of his own careless error. _‘But dare to disrespect Vera in front of me again’,_ he’d said, before then calling her Vera upon finding her unconscious. _You truly are slipping, Lombard!_ he berated himself angrily with a silent groan, fisting his hands at his sides in frustration. _Now the blasted, paranoid_ fuck _will be even more paranoid!_

While it was not a deal breaker, it was a nucience he could have avoided. Casually, he made his way back into the room with his usual ease of conviction. “Sealed…and _untampered_ _with_ ,” he said, waving it before Tubs’ unamused face. Tubs then changed the subject, asking what they considered the empty, sinister-looking hook on the ceiling was for. He proposed perhaps a chandelier, which Philip doubted, as he eased open the fresh bottle. 

Nonchalantly, he took a swig of the brandy before passing directly to Vera as he lit a fresh cigarette. As she took it, her eyes silently communicated her gratitude, seemingly not just for the bottle, but for the gesture he bestowed by volunteering to fetch another to assure her safety. Meanwhile, it also did not skip his notice that Vera looked considerably momentarily haunted at the sight of the hook as she seated herself on the floor. He could not piece together what the look meant, but found himself altogether intrigued him. Perhaps he would have to revisit such a conversation later…

_“Well,_ that’s _posh_ people, innit? They’ll put a chandelier anywhere. They’d put a chandelier in a _pigsty,_ if the fancy took ‘em.”

They all chortled at Tubs’ comment, because it _was_ true, but Philip was not sure what was more amusing; the fact Tubs’ spoke as though they were all of the same social class or position, or the fact that such a bland and nondescript observation had come from a man whose profession was supposedly to maintain the law of the land. “I’m becomin’ rather fond of you, Tubs.” The man opened his mouth and no word that could ever be considered to be astute, and yet, still… open his mouth, he did. _Constantly._

“You’re an arrogant arsehole, you,” he grumbled as he swallowed a gulp of the brandy with a wince, causing Philip to simply smirk at him. He looked up at Vera as he cursed, swallowing and paling guiltily. “ _Oh_ – bloody hell – _Sorry_ , Miss Claythorne – ”

Philip wanted to laugh, endlessly tickled by the way Vera had managed to convince so many around them that she was the type of woman to be offended by cussing. 

“ – No, you’re right.” Vera began chuckling devilishly to herself. “He’s an arsehole!” she giggled, swigging from the bottle eagerly as the men around her chortled at her bad language. Philip simply turned to look at her, cigarette hanging from his mouth as he digested her words. He knew his expression could be misconstrued as that of someone who had taken offence, but he _also_ knew that Vera would not see it that way. His eyes pinched with knowing humour and pleasure at her admission, mostly because it was a refreshing change to know what she was _actually_ thinking. 

They found Judge Wargrave dead next, after realising that they had not heard from him, despite Vera’s screaming. He was seated in his armchair, brains and blood splattered all over the wall behind him. At the sight, Philip frowned. _Shot in the head? Surely that wasn’t right…_

He almost made the point aloud, noting how out of place it seemed, considering all other deaths had followed the poem, but he had no concrete evidence, so he let it stew. 

Vera seemed dismayed by the elderly man’s death, he observed, more than she had by any of the others. He could see it in the way her gaze lingered over the man’s still, bloody face in the darkness. (In fact, she hadn’t seemed much dismayed about any of the other deaths much at all, he realised). He then volunteered to search for something to wrap the Judge’s head in when Armstrong almost used his jacket, finding the man’s inability to engage logic simply tiring. Afterward, allegations flew again, as they did after every murder, but more than anything, what grew was Philip’s burning frustration at his missing gun. He _needed_ that gun. It was the most effective of weapons _and_ he spent good money on that gun, too!   

Suddenly, Vera made her way past him, staring ahead, as though in some sort of trance. The men all shared a look before following behind her curiously. 

He predicted where it was she was headed by half way down the stairs. They ended up in the dining room and Philip felt himself growing wearier at the sight of what they saw. Vera sat, gormless, blankly staring at the soldier figures in the centre of the table, of which there were now just _four._

Slowly, he took a seat opposite her, his palms flat out on the tablecloth and met her gaze, in which he found a steeled resolve that screamed: _‘This will not happen to me’_. 

They all felt it, the certainty of their impending fate click into place, as though all their actions were inconsequential. 

Philip decided then and there, he’d be _damned_ if he let that be true.


End file.
